Trying to Get Me Drunk?
by whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp
Summary: In which John gets drunk, things happen and Sherlock finds himself wanting them to happen again... 4 part mini multi chapter. Johnlock slash. Bit angsty I guess but it'll all end happily I promise. Rated for kissing and swears.
1. Chapter 1

Sometimes John got drunk.

Not 'falling over throwing, up in plant pots' drunk, but 'a little more than tipsy and probably won't remember much in the morning' drunk. And it didn't happen a lot, having seen the effects alcohol could have both short and long term in his sister, he was usually exceptionally careful. Just not always.

The first time Sherlock saw him drunk was at Lestrade's idiotic party back in June. Why the inspector had even thrown one when his wife was off in Birmingham with her latest lover neither John nor Sherlock could work out, but the doctor insisted they attend, something along the lines of 'that's what mates are for'...

The evening started off slow: dancing, music too loud and a high presence of canned larger, but it soon picked up. Around one in the morning people were pulling out shot glasses and stronger substances they'd smuggled in in hand bags.

Sherlock had never been one for drinking. He'd used drugs in the (not so distant) past, but it was almost an alternative to the euphoric high of solving crimes. He did it to see clearer and understand more, to relax his stream of thought - turn a blizzard into a drizzle - and remember. Alcohol did the opposite which he hardly thought desirable. He had previously thought John shared this view that washing away ones troubles with liquor was absurd and disadvantageous, but he was proved wrong when his friend flopped gracelessly down onto the arm of his chair.

"Have you been sitting there the entire time?" John practically giggled.  
"Why shouldn't I?"  
"Aww Sherlock you're no fun! Come on, Greg bet me five quid I can't get you to dance and I really need the money." his head was lolling slightly, his eyes widening as he have the detective a playful poke in the leg.  
"You're drunk."  
"Yup. Good deduction"  
"I'm not dancing with you."  
"Please?"

And this was where it got complicated. Because if he wasn't drunk or just trying to win some stupid bet, Sherlock would very much has liked to dance with John. It had taken him a very very _very_ long time to realise this, longer to accept it and even longer to choose not to act on it. He'd never had any form of relationship beyond platonic, and those were rare in themselves; this was one area he wouldn't consider himself an expert in. And of course, even if he had known exactly what to do, he probably wouldn't have risked it. The friendship they shared was a bond he didn't think he'd see find again, it wasn't worth ruining for anything.

And yet, here John was, insisting on a dance: therein lay the problem, the only time the blond showed any outward signs of affection beyond merely friendship (or at all) was when he was intoxicated. It would be easy to say that it was nothing, a dance wasn't even that big a deal, but that was only the first time.

The second occurrence was after a particularly victorious arrest in late October. Again, it was hardly anything. A few simple touches, not enough to need talking about, not even enough to draw much attention or make tongues wag, but enough to make the detective blush faintly when (an only slightly tipsy) Lestrade raised an eyebrow. Leaning on shoulders, brushing ankles, resting a possessive hand on the smalls of backs... Near the end of the night John even took Sherlock's hand as they made their way onto the pavement to hail a cab. This earned them a few looks, probably more to do with the oddity of situation: one man drunk and pushing boundaries debatably too far, the other sober and trying desperately to look as though he wasn't immensely enjoying it.

These events, categorised by Lestrade as 'John getting gay when he's drunk', were not of course common, but they were becoming more and more frequent, and Sherlock was finding it more and more difficult not to take advantage...

Obviously they never talked about it. Of course Sherlock ways felt a tiny twinge of regret and pain when his blogger seemed to have forgotten the events that he remembered in such excruciating detail, but it was a relief. They were both happy to stay exactly where they were in their relationship, it just wasn't worth it. Besides, John got defensive and snappy when confronted with his sexuality and Sherlock preferred to act as though he still subscribed to Mycroft's 'caring is not an advantage' philosophy. Why would they talk about it anyway? It was nothing, a few barely platonic gestures, that was all.

New year's was different.  
There was no way try could argue it was purely friendly. Again, it was all Lestrade's fault, and again, it was a whole evening of being the only sober one watching everyone else make fools of themselves.

They made it nowhere near midnight. Around half ten Lestrade announced that he was leaving, after a pretty brunette rejected him, and suggested Sherlock take John back to 221b as well since he wasn't exactly thinking straight (no pun intended).

John fell asleep on the taxi. He smiled sluggishly and slowly drifted over onto Sherlock's side, letting his head flop against the taller man's boney shoulder. He wasn't wearing a seat belt.

"I'm sleepy," he murmured, his head drooping even more so that his nose worried at the collar of Sherlock's coat.  
"It's only quarter to eleven," the detective started, "you insisted you'd make it too midnight..."  
But John shushed him, shifting slightly so his head now rested just under Sherlock's chin. "Don't talk," he said, curling his fingers tightly into the fabric the infamous coat, "people are trying to sleep..."

Getting him up the stairs and into the sofa was a challenge, but he was out cold for almost an hour after that, taking them up to nearly twelve. When he eventually woke up, all the weariness had vanished.

Sherlock was washing his hands to try and rid himself of the cloying sweat and stickiness of the pub when strong arms ambushed him from behind.

"You know," despite the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed, John's voice was early audible against the base of the taller man's neck, "last year I had someone to kiss at midnight..."  
Sherlock's mouth had gone dry. He couldn't do this, neither of them wanted it really, they'd both regret it in the morning. He couldn't just let this happen... _could he?_ His throat tightened and all could manage was "Oh."  
He turned around slowly, and almost started at how close they were now. The blond was leaning against him fully so that no part of him wasn't in contact. His face was turned upward like a flower seeking the sun; his eyes so wide and so blue that Sherlock had to try very hard not to let his mind wander to metaphors and sonnets, but to no avail, he was sinking helplessly into those deep pools of tranquil warm water. He gulped, adjusting his hand positioning on the edge of the sink where they had started to slip. This couldn't be happening, it just wouldn't... shouldn't... couldn't... but it was and he wasn't doing anything to stop it. He felt almost disappointed with himself, feeling his pulse elevating, pupils dilating, breath quickening. This didn't happen to him, he was supposed to be above all of this pointless chemical emotional nonsense. But here he was, captivated and rendered practically giddy by his previously labelled heterosexual flatmate.

Then the clocks struck twelve.

All the time keeping devices in baker street were meticulously in sync and all wound to London's most famous clock. As their mouths collided, Sherlock could clearly discern the clicks of his own wrist watch, the beeping of the digital timer on the microwave, the cawing Mrs Hudson's absurd cuckoo clock from downstairs and the faint emotionless chimes of Big Ben - and all of them were out of time with the now frantic pulse.

He reeled backwards with the shock and force of the kiss, causing a dull thud as his elbow collided painfully with the sink. John giggled against Sherlock's lips as he swore under his breath, but quickly regained control.

It was surreal, that he could be right there in the moment and yet so far away, that he could sense everything between them and yet feel almost as if he were an onlooker. Because John Watson was bloody kissing him and this wasn't supposed to happen. His attraction was supposed to be a secret. This... this _physical_ element wasn't supposed to be worth putting their friendship on the line, but it was difficult to keep clinging onto that when the whole experience was so... _worthwhile..._ In the most disgustingly cliché way possible it was like his body was trying to lift off the ground, propelled by pure euphoric chemistry, but was being anchored by the one aspect of the whole thing he was familiar with: John.

John tasted like Sherlock had imagined (and god help him that he really had imagined these things), warmth and slightly burnt toast, but it was overpowered by the alcohol. He'd seen the doctor downing one too many pints but with the new senses of taste and touch available to him he could deduce that John'd been at the cocktail bar as well. He was attempting to discern exactly which blend when the shorter man ran his tongue effortlessly along Sherlock's lower lip and he was instantly distracted, he couldn't help but gasp.

Kissing was something he'd always thought of as a strange and unnatural locking of isolated lips, only now did he realise there was a lot more to it. It was exploration, he understood now as John's tongue ran swiftly along his teeth and over his own. Sherlock was still in too much shock to do anything except wander at the sheer odd pleasantness of it all and start committing these very knew sensations to his mind palace for further scrutiny. John's hand was on the back of neck, forcing his head downward; after only a few racing heartbeats hesitation Sherlock let the clearly much more experienced man angle his head more to the right and down a bit and _oh god that was good..._ he shivered again. Yes, yes this was so much more than he had ever considered.

And that was only the contact they had with their mouths. Fingers that'd he'd seen tapping at keyboards, clenching into fists, pulling on triggers, even had interlaced with his own were roughly grabbing at his curls. Others were making their way - with more force than strictly necessary - down his spine and hooking possessively and with strength Sherlock would never have predicted into his waistband. There wasn't an inch of space between them. It was as if John was determined to have the upper hand to prove a point about his height, he was stretching at the same time as Sherlock's knees were going weak and he was pushing the taller man nearer to the bathroom floor. Denim rubbed at Sherlock's ankles as they drew even more closely intertwined. He wandered if maybe he should do something, anything to respond in kind rather than just standing there in a state of shock.

But then it was over even more unexpectedly than it had begun. John suddenly pulled away from the stunned detective, his hands now both framing skinny hips, their noses still touching ever so slightly. His widened eyes bore into Sherlock's equally distended grey ones with so much intensity that Sherlock gulped.  
"Happy new year," he said before sweeping out of the room leaving a dazed and breathless Sherlock clutching at the sink to stay standing. His knuckles were as white as the porcelain, his breathing laboured.

Because _That _just happened. And it must have been a dream or a figment of his imagination because _That _didn't happen. Not to him and, if John's irritable denials were to be believed, not to any man.

But it did. And it was... it was _good._

'Happy new year' he mouthed wordlessly, sinking slowly onto the cold tiles.

* * *

**Hey everyone, hope you're enjoying so far. So this is going to have three chapters, hopefully updated on a regular, fortnightly basis. So please click on follow if you want to read the resolution of this :)** **Also, I cannot tell you enough how happy reviews make me, so whatever you thought please leave a comment xx**

**PS - this was originally inspired by the All Time Low song 'Stella', until I realised I had totally misinterpreted the lyrics lol. So yeah, if you liked this you might want to have a look at my collection of ATL one shots, 'Nothing Personal', because yeah it's the same sort of thing :)**


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next few weeks, Sherlock personally commended his self-control. To an outsider, it may have seemed unimpressive that he had moved past the events of that night, but it wasn't that easy. John had woken agitated and sour on the sofa and it didn't take long at all for the world's only consulting detective to discern that he clearly had no idea what he had initiated at midnight. Sherlock spent the entire weekend wrestling with whether or not to tell him.  
On the one hand, he knew John had the right to know and that he shouldn't withhold something this big. There was also the tiniest sliver of hopeful possibility that if John knew he wouldn't regret it, he wouldn't be disgusted at the very thought; Sherlock quickly dismissed this idea from his mind.  
On the other hand, it wasn't worth the risk. Both of them had long ago decided - albeit wordlessly - that this was a friendship that was meant to last. It was a more special, stronger link than most people would ever form. It simply wasn't worth tarnishing with dopamine or _romantic_ attachment.

So he stayed silent, suppressing shivers when they accidentally brushed against each other in cabs, mentally slapping his hand away when it seemed to inch towards John's with a mind of its own, trying not to flinch when someone mentioned New Year. But it was an impossible act to sustain, he was an addict at heart and it was becoming more regular for him to be lying awake at night replaying the kiss over and over. It was clear that he'd latched onto a new drug of choice and he didn't think he could abstain much longer...

Three weeks later he found himself in the familiar window booth at Angelo's, willing himself not to stare at his very definite _just friend_ in the candle light. He heard the tiny but overpowering part of his brain say 'fuck it', sensed his mouth moving and his disembodied voice ordering two bottles of house red, saw John laughing and asking "are you trying to get me drunk?", felt the guilt prodding incessantly at his gut as his flatmate poured the first glasses.

_I'm not a bad person, I'm not a bad person..._

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure if his plot was even going to work, any real knowledge he had of reactions to alcohol were from observation over the last few months. He supposed part of him would have been relieved of John had just crashed on the sofa, it might have helped with the guilt. But that was a minuscule part of him berried very deep down, the rest of him was desperately hoping against hope that the outcome would be the same as new year's. He practically ached with the waiting.

He needn't have worried however, John was on him almost as soon as they were through the door (he'd barely hung his coat up and still had the scarf around his neck). And whilst this reaction to the alcohol was essentially the same, it was more different than he could possibly have guessed. As someone who had never even really thought about kissing before the events of new year's, Sherlock had made the - frankly ridiculous, he now understood - assumption that that was what all kisses were like. But this wasn't a hungry, grabby affair; it was remarkably gentle. Very soft, very slight planting of lips around and just on his own, one set of fingers curling loosely in his palm, the other cautiously brushing a curl out of his eyes. John still tasted like alcohol, but it was fainter, less intrusive on their moment. And besides, Sherlock had taken the precaution of ordering a wine he himself actually liked as well.

As one particular wayward curl was tucked behind his ear, they broke contact just for a second to simply stare. With John so close Sherlock had a perfect opportunity to observe. His gaze raked over the familiar features, but with a new perspective. He knew there was no chance of John remembering any of this, so he was at full liberty to take in every detail in a most non-platonic manner. He could finally have a chance to study without having to hide the admiration, and later adoration, from his eyes. He'd often heard Mrs Hudson rambling on about love and how one could tell from only a person's expressions; usually he just filtered her out but recently he'd been paying a lot more attention. Of course all his feelings were secret, but he couldn't help glancing at the mirror every so often just to check he wasn't looking at John 'like he's the whole world...'.

And John was staring back at him and maybe the doctor wouldn't be angry, maybe Sherlock could tell him. Were his eyes really that blue? How could the world's only consulting detective not have noticed before? He clearly had a lot more research to do in this area... Johns gaze flitted downwards towards to Sherlock's lips and his mouth parted slightly as he barely murmured his next words. "Can I sleep with you?"  
"What?!" Sherlock's eyes were suddenly wide with surprise rather than dilation, his stomach constricted so much he could barely choke out the exclamation. He moved backwards so fast it probably looked like John had pulled out a gun. His butterflies were dying out and being replaced with a swarm of agitated moths.  
He hadn't heard rightly, he couldn't have. Surely it would take even a person with horrifically low tolerance more than one and a half bottles of red wine to want to sleep with someone they knew only as their friend. Sherlock thought he had pretty good reasoning to be stunned, and as someone who had had their first kiss less than a month ago he also thought he had the right to be mildly terrified at the very suggestion.  
John seemed to find his reaction amusing however, he laughed his high pitched breathless laugh and said exasperatedly "I mean in the same bed, you prat."

Oh. _Oh._ Same bed. The guilt and discomfort was washed over with yet another layer of fast-drying longing. Sharing a bed didn't have to be sexual and alarming, it could be comforting and... nice... Sherlock recalled how strangely safe he had felt with John's arms around him and couldn't help imagining how that feeling would be intensified if they both huddled together under his bed sheets...

His mouth was dry again - this whole thing was an odd mix of massively different and a sense of déjà vu - so he just nodded. He must have still looked as if he were being held to ransom because John was rolling his eyes. He reached across and closed his fingers around the scarf, using it to pull Sherlock back towards him and lock their lips again. The materiel started to rub on the back of the detective's neck and he realised he was being lead. Lead. By the neck. Into a bedroom. By John Watson. Jesus, what the hell was going on.

It wasn't unpleasant though, which Sherlock discovered mainly by his disappointment when the short fingers vanished (he dearly hoped he imagined making that pathetic whining noise). But his disappointment was swiftly vanished by a dazed stupor when he noticed why John had let go of him. The doctor was hurriedly, and rather clumsily, yanking his jeans off and pulling his jumper over his head.

Sherlock's mouth had fallen open but he honestly wouldn't have been surprised if a witness had sworn his eyes were wider. He couldn't help but stare, drinking in the sight. His gaze was lapping up every last detail, gulping down every piece of new information he could gather. He felt an overwhelming desire to know every inch of the body he really shouldn't be looking at with such intent. To catalogue, to map out all the little things. He'd already started taking his mental notes with the odd square of freckles on John's right forearm when the blond was back in his personal space. Small, nimble fingers closed around his scarf again and pulled the knot loose.  
"There," John grinned triumphantly, dropping the cashmere onto the floor, "that's about even." he chuckled at his own wit.  
"I don't sleep like this, contrary to popular belief I am not a vampire; I do own pyjamas." in an ideal world (not that this was too far from it) Sherlock would have turned around and gone to the wardrobe immediately to illustrate this, but he was finding it difficult to tear himself away. John rolled his eyes and reached for his own discarded shirt.  
"There," he announced again, "now you have two sets of pyjamas." he stood on tiptoe briefly to plant a kiss on the taller man's jawline before flopping backwards onto the bed. When Sherlock still didn't move he sighed and grabbed a pillow, pulling it across his face with a slight giggle. "I'm not looking, promise."

Sherlock couldn't remember ever getting changed faster or with less grace. He wrestled on his regular old t-shirt and wore John's over the top; it was too small really but he couldn't have cared less. It was the symbolism of it more than anything. It was a caring, friendly, romantic gesture of course, but the possessive undertones were there and it made him shudder with the realisation that he had been claimed. He breathed deeply, partially to try and calm himself down and partially to breath it in and savour everything he could before it was too late and...

_God it smelt like him._

The comfort and familiarity of the smell contrasting with the new sensation of having it quite so close to him, having it touching his bare skin was what finally drove Sherlock to crawl cautiously onto the bed.  
"Okay" he said, not entirely sure why he'd chosen that word and instantly regretting it.  
John dropped the pillow and sighed. But not in exasperation or mock annoyance, with a sort of relieved satisfaction. "Has anyone ever told you you're bloody gorgeous?" he asked.  
Sherlock was too taken aback to answer. He felt himself going red and god he was practically pedestrian.  
He was still recovering from the shock of the compliment when he realised the shorter man was clambering on top of him. There were legs straddling his hipbones and hands resting protectively on his stomach and toes curling into the fabric of his pyjamas and for some reason he wasn't panicking. He'd looked down instinctively but as the hands started to inch their way towards the hem of his t-shirt he closed his eyes.

John's fingers curled and un-curled around the edge of the materiel, like some sort of athlete preparing for a trial. When they finally braved the underside however, Sherlock decided this metaphor wasn't appropriate. Not unless the athlete was some form of dancer, a figure skater maybe - people always said his skin was cold. Finger tips barely brushed across his stomach, the distance between the two men was so little that Sherlock's senses were heightened. He would have sworn he could feel each ridge, each calloused tip, each minute scratch of a nail. The well-practiced hands were moving now, slowly making their way up his rib cage. They moved so cautiously it was as if John were checking every one for damage. Sherlock supposed it was a doctor thing; he didn't mind at all.

And then there were lips as well, on the side of his face, his earlobe, his jawline, his neck, his collar bones. His eyes flew open with the sudden change; they were instantly drawn back to his previous efforts to observe everything they could about the man now on top of him (it felt unexpectedly good to be able to say that...).

"Why d'you wear your shirts inside out?" John breathed.

"The stitching irritates my skin." Sherlock was trying to keep his voice level and his answer rational but it wasn't easy.  
He couldn't see but he felt the smile against his exposed throat. "Does _this_ irritate your skin?" teeth skimmed easily just below his Adams apple, hardly scraping, hardly touching. Unbelievably gentle for such an intimate and domineering act. Sherlock shuddered. Was that supposed to happen? Did people actually _shudder_ with pleasure? That was probably the third or fourth time it had happened, was it normal? John didn't seem to find the reaction atypical or off-putting in any way, he raised his head so they were face to face again and grinned.

Sherlock met his gaze and swallowed hard; it was really very difficult to remember he was the one taking advantage here when he was looking at up at John at this angle. John, with his hair ruffled and his face flushed and a gleam in his eye that usually only appeared after a particularly great arrest. John, who was giving Sherlock so many new experiences that the man had never even considered that he might enjoy and not realising quite what a revelation he was. John, who was drawing closer to continue said experiences.

And suddenly the urge to do something other than lie there overcame Sherlock and he was kissing back and _why hadn't he done this before?_ He sat up a little, throwing more force into it. A memory of a tongue running swiftly over his lower lip surfaced; he mimicked the action now and reaped the benefits of all new access and the taste of a barely audible moan. He tested the waters a little further, flicking his tongue a fraction upwards and jumping at the almost electric shock. The rich, fruity, slightly bitter taste of the wine was still present but he barely even noticed it now. He noticed the physical reactions: splayed fingers on his collar bone, a low, contented purring sound, the heat gathering just below his hipbones...

_Shit._

He stopped as instantaneously as he'd begun, lying back down on the pillow and screwing up his eyes. He started to count slowly to ten, but only reach six before John rolled off him and lay down so they were side by side. A lone finger stroked gently down the side of his face and across his jaw, turning his head to meet a pair of equally gentle lips.

Sherlock opened his eyes as they broke off again, sighing as he let his eyes shamelessly search the face in front of him. This angle really was another story. Lying with their heads the same height on the pillow, nose tips slightly bumping, they were equals, to anyone else it would have appeared totally consensual without even a hint of moral ambiguity. But that just wasn't the case and sherlock couldn't fool himself anymore: John was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing, he wouldn't never have done it sober and he wasn't going to remember it in the morning. These facts were fairly easy to forget when he was the one doing all the kissing, but came barrelling back like a freight train when he was curled up in the sheets with a bashful smile and drooping, fluttering eyelids looking quite so vulnerable.

"I'm a terrible person." Sherlock said.

The blond snorted a laugh, "Yeah, I've never noticed." he replied sarcastically, then raised his eyes to the heavens and put on an overly dramatic serious voice. "Oh alright, go on then. Why are you a terrible person?"  
"Because you're not going to remember any of this tomorrow."  
John looked confused at this sudden change of tone, clearly his wine soaked brain hadn't twigged it wasn't all a joke. His nose scrunched up as he readjusted himself on the pillow. "Well that doesn't seem very fair, does it?" He said, still light-heartedly.  
"No," Sherlock agreed, speaking more to himself, "no it doesn't."  
"Hmm," John wasn't really listening any more, he burrowed further into the sheets until he came to rest with his head tucked under the taller man's chin. "I'm tiered."  
"Go to sleep then."  
That made him laugh again, the sort of silent laugh that's really just an expulsion of air. "Night," he mumbled.  
"Goodnight." Sherlock answered. He allowed himself one final guilty pleasure of wrapping his arm protectively around johns shoulders and pulling the blond closer. He'd deal with the morality issues in the morning. He took one last look before he closed his eyes, knowing that he'd almost definitely never see this again, and drifted soundlessly into the deepest and calmest sleep he'd had in weeks.

* * *

**Hey again everyone, wow I stuck to my deadline that's a first... **

**I hope you're enjoying this, please PLEASE give me your feedback, because this got more popular than I thought it would in like a fortnight and I want to know what you all think. Also please rec this to other people if you like it, it really helps me out. Tell your grandma idgaf**

**You might know we're entering exam season in the UK now, so the last part of this is going to be uploaded once their all done, some time at the end of June, sorry! Good luck all of you taking exams xx**


	3. Chapter 3

The morning had been particularly painful.  
Waking up still curled into the man he adored, all a comforting bundle and jumble of limbs and rumpled sheets felt like a dream, a fantasy, an alternate universe where John Watson clambered willing into bed with another man and Sherlock Holmes _adored_ people. He wanted to lie there forever, well, at least until John woke up. But that would have been the worst idea. He figured the doctor was bound to over react and his presence wasn't going to improve things, no matter how at peace John looked snoring against his chest. So he'd wriggled gingerly out from underneath an forced himself not to look back as he headed for the kitchen.

He was cracking eggs by the time John came stomping and stumbling into the kitchen. His voice was still a little hoarse but it cut through the nervous air like the edge of a bowl through fragile egg shell.

"Sherlock, do you want to explain what the hell is going on?!"

_Here we go._

Sherlock squared his shoulders and turned around. His flatmate was leaning on the opposite side of the table, clearly a bit more than slightly hung-over. He was fully dressed but he looked manic; a flight animal backed into the corner of the pen. His face was flushed with anger and confusion and fear, his hair still ruffled up from the night before. Oh god this was going to be a lot harder than Sherlock had anticipated. He tried to start, "I'm making break-"

"I just woke up in your bed." John cut across him, only a slight tremolo giving away the effort it was taking to stay matter of fact and calm. "And I don't remember anything that happened last night so I'm going to need you to explain."

_Explain. _If he was going to explain he'd need a story. While Sherlock's brain frantically searched for an alibi, his mouth tried to buy him some time. "Of course," he said, turning back to the toaster, "but are you sure you don't want-"

"Are you listening to me? I just woke up in your bed in my underwear!" John exploded.

A sharp intake of breath drew both their attentions to the doorway; they barely glimpsed the hem of a purple skirt whipping round the corner as the clacking of heels and Mrs Hudson's shocked, badly repressed giggles filled the hallway. John flushed furiously, and lowered his voice to continue. "I need you to tell me what I did-"

"You didn't do anything." the detective interrupted hastily. The very idea that John thought this was his fault was as absurd as it was upsetting. _You're not to blame, you couldn't help it, __**I**__ took advantage of __**you**__._

"Well... I need to know what happened then." his tone was a little lower now, but it still wavered dangerously as he said "please."

Sherlock started very slowly, choosing his words with upmost caution, tiptoeing around the truth like it was a creaking floorboard. "Well, we went out, you got drunk so we got a cab back here." that much was true anyway. "You went to the bathroom and got changed, I assumed you were going to sleep on the sofa but you, uh, didn't make it that far. You sort of, collapsed asleep..."

"I passed out?" John sounded more incredulous than horrified, Sherlock got the impression he hadn't been _that_ drunk in a long time.

"Well no," Sherlock replied, "you were..." he paused, a fond memory stirring caused him to almost smile, "you were snoring." he had to stop himself adding 'it was endearing'. "And I didn't want to leave you lying in the hall so I..."

"You carried me into your bedroom?" John's voice dripped with scepticism.

"Yes."

He snorted. "What's wrong with the sofa?"

"My bed was closer."

"You carried me into your bed?" the disbelief still rang true in his tone, and honestly he was right - it was unusual and strange and beyond what most people would call platonic. But what was Sherlock supposed to say? This was the least incriminating, victim blaming, scarily attractive way he could think to spin the story.

"Yes." the taller man repeated.

"So you slept...?

"I didn't." the lie scalded his throat. _I slept better than I have in weeks..._

"Ok... I suppose that makes sense... Nothing happened then?"

"John what were you expecting to have happened?"

"I don't know, I just sort of panicked." His flatmate - that much could still truthfully be said of them, that they were, for the time being at least, flatmates - shrugged apologetically, it really looked as though Sherlock had got away with it. "Are you really making breakfast?"

It was difficult to keep the relief out of his voice. "Yes."

"You never make breakfast. Or food of any sort."

"Well I thought you might... panic."

Breakfast was still a tad frosty, but after that things returned to a state of normality. John went off to the clinic to 'pay for our bloody home', Sherlock visited the morgue at Bart's, popping into NSY as well to fill in some paperwork and sneer at the forensics department. The only deviation from the norm was his decision to go to the supermarket on his way home. His reasoning being that: one, he needed some more ice for the next time one of them got hurt; two, they were out of food anyway sine he'd used it all on breakfast; and three, it was guaranteed to get him back in John's good books.

The plastic handles dug into his palms as he took the stairs two at a time. He'd planned to march through the doorway and announce that Lestrade had just texted him but as he skipped onto the lower landing he saw the door was already ajar, his landlady's voice tumbling down the stairs towards him. He slowed, pausing a few steps from the door, to listen.

"So you two are alright now are you?" she said. There was a clinking of china, Sherlock assumed she was making tea.

"We're fine, everything's fine, why?" his flatmate was definitely more tetchy than before no matter what he said about being fine with it as long as 'nothing happened'.

"Well it just seemed like you were having a bit of an argument earlier..." scuffling footsteps and a scraping of plates into the food bin (did they have a food bin? He vaguely recalled John shouting at him for putting something 'the council would NOT class as food waste' in there...).

"We're fine."

"Well that's good, isn't it? I did think you seemed very angry with him considering... You know."

_Oh no._

She'd seen. Of course, of course she had. The infuriating woman saw everything and of course she would have come up to check they were home safely, of course that was just his luck.

The taught silence proved it, he'd been well and truly rumbled. London's finest in crime fighting took the last few stairs to his own flat on tiptoe and made his way painstakingly slowly behind the door, hoping against hope that John wouldn't pick up on it.

He did.

"No..." the perplexity was clear in even that one syllable, the upwards inflection hanging in the air like a dissonant chord. "Considering what?"

Another pause. Sherlock crept even closer to push his eye against the gap, straining to hear any sound in the silence, see any signs that he might be safe. It was obvious now that both of them were confused; Mrs Hudson, of course, had no idea the true circumstances of what she'd seen. She had probably, and logically to credit her, assumed that it was a conscious consensual decision by both of them and her eye brow raised a fraction at the question. John was completely nonplussed, but he wasn't stupid and a foreboding comprehension was starting to appear in his face.

"Well," the older woman finally spoke, "considering you were the one who led him in there."

_Oh no._

"What...?"

_Shit._

"Oh, you just seemed a bit..."

"No, what did you mean I 'led him in there'? What happened?" and now John was standing up out of his chair and advancing on her and, while his voice was as expertly level as that morning, his eyes were wide with dawning understanding and fresh fear. And maybe it would just be easier if Sherlock opened the door now and tried to prevent the train wreck, but it looked as though he was too late. Or maybe he should go in and come clean, explain what had happened and accept the inevitable loss of his friend and half the rent. Or maybe he should just stay out in the hall forever and hope he eventually became part of the furniture.

"You were arguing about bedrooms or something weren't you? Well... I mean..." a pink tinge was creeping over her cheeks, she clearly felt uncomfortable talking about what she'd seen. "You led him into the bedroom, don't you think it's a little unfair to-"

"I did what?" the doctor's voice was slightly stronger this time, remnants of his captaincy straining to keep themselves concealed.

"You..."

"I can't have... I..."

At this point Sherlock's feet seemed to be acting of their own occurred. The rest of his body was still subscribing to the 'don't move and he'll forget you exist' strategy, and yet he was walking into the room in a sort of daze. He didn't know of he planned to join the conversation or just hope he looked as invisible as he wanted to and slip right past.

Of course, the latter wasn't an option. He was perfectly visible and perfectly in possession of all the information.

Both the confused people turned as he slipped through the doorway. "Did you know about this?" John asked quietly.

Maybe feigning innocence was the best thing, Sherlock didn't have anything else to say after all; there was no defence. "Know about what...?"

It was clear from the look on John's face that he wasn't buying it. He turned away, muttering frantically. "Oh my god. Of course you did, oh my god."

"Nothing hap-" Sherlock tried to start, lowering the shopping bags into the carpet.

"No. No, no, no Jesus Christ no..."

"We didn't-"

Clearly they had now reached some form of snapping point because John rounded on him and yelled "No don't give me that again! Fucking hell!"

Mrs Hudson squealed at the language and scurried from the room with a squawk of 'I'll leave you two alone...'

The silence resonated around them. It felt dense, heavy. like it would take incredible strength to shift, but it was short lived.

John broke it again, his voice was back the strained softness. Sherlock couldn't work out if this or the shouting scared him more. "I'm going to ask you what happened again and you're not going to lie to me." This, definitely this. Wild blue eyes bore straight into his own and he dropped his gaze to the threadbare carpet. "What happened?"

"I don't-"

"Christ will you just tell me?!" They had regressed back to yelling, louder this time.

It made Sherlock flinch. He didn't know what he was supposed to say, he didn't know how to say it; he didn't say anything.

He didn't have to look up to know that John was raising his eyes to the heavens. Less than five seconds before he started shouting the question again.

But by this time it was too much. The immense pressure of the lies had burned and scraped at Sherlock's insides for weeks and he couldn't fit anymore in there. There were no more excuses and, try as he might, the consulting detective was stuck for ideas. He couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't stand here any longer being yelled at. Of course it was his own fault and he'd known it would happen but he'd never thought it would be this awful. He felt like a cliff face, beaten mercilessly by wave after wave and the words came tumbling out of his mouth like loose, crumbling rocks: "You kissed me."

Silence. Again.

"What...?"

"You... while you were drunk..." he forced himself to look up, "you kissed me."

This time there was no pause; John's denial was a reflex response. "No." the word was a breath, the glare he had had turned to pure horror. He gripped his head in his hands, starting to pace across the living room, "no I can't have. That, I, this wasn't supposed... Oh fuck...!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but he didn't think it would get them anywhere, John wasn't listening.

"Jesus... You let me do that?!"

"Well I-"

The panic was well settled in now, it was going to take some time for John to calm down again and Sherlock felt nothing but guilt. The shorter man turned back to face his... his - well labels were going to be more complicated now anyway - and barely whispered "Did we-"

"No." _No, but maybe we might have if it happened again... No, but maybe if I hadn't been so daunted it would have gone differently... No, but even though I've never considered it as something I'd want to do before I don't think I would have minded because it's you..._ "No we just... slept..."

From the relief that flooded into his features Sherlock could tell this been a huge factor in his emotional upset. John nodded to himself, as if in reassurance, before becoming anxious again as suddenly as he had been at ease. "Please tell me this has only happened once." He asked with a pleading tone of voice that forced Sherlock into remaining mute with renewed pangs of conscience.

Obviously his lack of answer was as good as one. "Oh my god! When?"

"New year's eve..." he mumbled.

"What?"

"New years-"

"My god! I can't believe... At midnight?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I did that And you let me do that? And you didn't tell me?" there it was. John had finally realised that this wasn't entirely his fault, the disbelief and denial had turned to anger. "Why didn't you stop me?! Why didn't you tell me?!

"Well, I-"

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?!"

"Again, I-"

"Seriously I cannot think of a reason why you wouldn't-"

And again, despite the fact that his usually level, logical and leading brain was screaming at him not to, the corrosive anger was enough to make Sherlock blurt out an answer. "I thought you'd stop."

"What?"

He drew a deep, shuddering breath, and started again, slowly. "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd react like this," he wished this wasn't so difficult to put into words, he was struggling so much he sounded as if he were talking to a five year old. "I know you get defensive over your sexuality and I thought if you knew you'd stop drinking or, or be more careful. And I," he swallowed before continuing, trailing off at the end, "I uh, didn't want that to happen."

John was gaping at him, his mouth only slightly open but his eyes glassed over. Then he shook his head (which dispelled some of the unruliness the distress had given his hair) and coughed before he began to speak, hesitantly but clearly. "See... to me... that would mean you..." He was clearly struggling for a word to finish this phrase and settled for: "didn't mind." His sentences were as disjointed as Sherlock felt, these particular word formations as unfamiliar as had been the events they were discussing. John cleared his throat again, "that you were... that you wanted it to happen again..."

"Yes..."

"And that would mean that," again, the difficultly of find the right words was obvious. Each time John attempted to figure out how to get through his question, the unspoken endings hung like the moon in the daylight: clearly there, obvious and visible to anyone and everyone who looked up, but ignored because it's not supposed to be there, because it's unfamiliar. "That you..." _like me? _"You have..." _feelings for me?_ "You're..." _attracted to me?_

One last question. One last pause to consider. One last chance to lie. But Sherlock didn't lie. "It would appear so."

"Oh." Was the only response he got.

"I wasn't going to tell you that either." There was yet another pause before he spoke again, his words slightly choked. "You can leave if you want."

This appeared to jerk John out of his latest state of shock. "Why would I leave?" he sounded genuinely concerned and took a couple of steps closer.

"Because you don't want that," Sherlock was confused now, why _wouldn't_ John leave? "I ruined -"

"Sherlock I'm the one that did it!" the doctor said in an exasperated, almost defensive voice, taking another step forward.

"You were drunk, you has an excuse. Look, John I'm sorry that I didn't tell you and I'm sorry that I took advan-"

Sherlock was going to go on apologising but the words were barred from leaving his mouth by a cautious pressing of lips. The careful compression was there for barely longer than a second but it was enough for him to completely forget anything he was planning to say. His mind went so blissfully blank it was as if his rational consciousness had closed its doors and shutters, flipped the light switches, unplugged everything (except the fridge) and left him totally at the mercy of his senses. That now familiar warmth and pressure on his mouth, that now familiar burnt toast smell, those now familiar fingers slipping under his chin. He felt a sense of Deja-vu in that he was far too startled to do anything but melt into it.

Then they pulled apart again, still both close together, staring at each other with mutual 'I can't believe we just did that' looks: wide eyes and still parted mouths.

"There," John breathed, "no excuse that time."

* * *

**woah cliff hanger, i thougt she said it would be three parts?!**

**yeah i kind of did a bad thing... this last chapter was so long i split it in two. but my last exam is tomorrow so i promise you wont have to wait long, and i did upload this a lil early right? so its ok?**

**anyway, please PLEASE tell me what you thought, good or bad. ita really helpful and encouraging to have feedback. and if you enjoyed this please spread it around, tell your friend, your mum, your bigoted grandparents, your gay uncle, anyone you like, it makes me feel loved :)**

**thanks guys, see you soon! xx**


End file.
